


Forgiveness is Divine

by ProblematicFavesAreProblematic (SaritaNotSerena)



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28182762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaritaNotSerena/pseuds/ProblematicFavesAreProblematic
Relationships: Ronald Speirs/Reader
Kudos: 7





	Forgiveness is Divine

Ron Speirs x Reader One Shot

**Requested by the effervescent@hbo-monster-bob ~~_(my first ever request oh my lordy!)_~~**

**Summary** : you get hurt and Ron loses his cool in front of the wrong people. Now he fears he may have truly lost you. 

**Warnings:** mention of injury, potty words, a bit more angst than initially intended, some good ole RemorsefulButTryingHisVeryBest!Ron Speirs, some shitty dialogue i probably should’ve spent more time on

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He’d really fucked up. 

Even as he had ranted at you, he’d known how badly he was fucking things up.

But _you_...you’d made him worry. You’d _scared_ him.

[[MORE]]

While helping Malarkey and Bull drag a wounded NCO into a trench, a bullet had ricocheted off of someone’s helmet and buried itself deep into your left bicep. The shock of it had made you drop, unable to catch yourself between your unresponsive arm and your death grip on the NCO’s vest.

Ron had thought you’d died.

He’d been _sure_ that he’d just watched _you_ _die_ in front of him and then he was being fired at and he’d gone numb and gotten himself and his men out of the line of fire.

Hours later, he’d caught sight of you at the med station with one of the medics fishing around in your bicep for the fragments of the bullet that had stained your jacket beyond use with your blood.

You’d initially given him the soft smile you’d always saved for him when he stormed in, the fact that you were alive and safe eclipsed by his rage that you’d made him worry so badly.

His mother had once compared his temper to a tsunami- wild and destructive and overwhelming to those foolish enough to cross its path.

“ _The only difference between you and your father is that_ ** _you_** _stick around long enough to see the carnage you’ve created. My only wish for you, my sweetheart, is that you learn to own your mistakes and make them right again…..”_

Ron had disappointed both of you with what he’d done next.

He’d let you _have it._

He’d shouted and scolded and criticized you for your ‘ _carelessness_ ’, tearing into you for abandoning your position of relative safety in favor of ‘playing a hero’. 

Ron had called you _incompetent_ and _reckless_ and questioned your sanity. Your smile had slipped from your face and he’d watched as you began to close yourself off to him, eyes becoming cold and detached despite the pain you must be feeling as the medic tweezed the deeply embedded shrapnel from your bicep. 

If you had been alone he knew you would’ve snapped right back at him or (at the very least) told him to calm down and find you when he’d remembered how to behave like a grown-up.

This brought him to his _second_ fuckup, he’d done it in front of people. 

No, it was worse than that. 

He’d questioned your competence in front of _three_ of your superiors (and several NCOs….and six of the medics).

When he’d finally run out of steam, you’d stared at him with a cool indifference that he’d only seen you slip into when you were dealing with something/someone you loathed. 

It was a look he’d never had cast his way before. And now that it was?

Ron felt about two inches tall. He _hated_ it.

After making him suffer your silent and baleful glare for an agonizing two minutes, you’d turned to the ( _ ~~ **incredibly** uncomfortable)~~_ medic and let your hateful expression melt into your regular, relaxed one.

 _“Any instructions for me, Doc?”_ you’d asked politely, and when the man had given you some gauze to repack the wound later you’d popped down off the table you’d been sitting on and walked past him like he was little more than furniture.

His outburst had gotten you taken off of the frontlines- away from the action and away from _him_.

When he’d asked Nixon where they’d put you, the other man had scoffed and given him an answer along the lines of “ _somewhere where her ‘incompetence won’t put others at risk’. **Jackass**.”_

Welsh was significantly more helpful, telling Ron they’d sent you to Battalion for some extended desk duty ( _after_ scoffing at him, of course. Ron hadn’t realized just how quickly word had spread about his outburst).

Not that knowing where you were made much of a difference. 

He could be sitting _right next to you_ and you’d still carry on as if you were alone, and when you did look at him it was so detached that all of his words of remorse died in his throat.

It was horrible.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

After reclaiming a hamlet on the airborne’s way to Germany, Ron had realized that you weren’t going to budge or relent in your indifference. 

Your willpower was _clearly_ steadfast- you wouldn’t have made it this far if you weren’t at least a little bullheaded.

He was going to have to come to you. 

He had to try to make things right, even if you hated him for it...

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When Ron had knocked and not received an answer, he’d decided to come in anyway.

You didn’t look up at him as he closed the door behind him, keeping your eyes firmly trained on the typewriter in front of you as your fingers flew across the keys. 

A neat stack of _(what he assumed to be)_ freshly typed reports for Sink rested beside your still-smoking cigarette on the table, and from the slope of your shoulders Ron could only assume that you’d been at this task for hours.

Clearing his throat, he tried to ease you into conversation.

“Want me to take those to Battalion for you—?”

_“No. I don’t.”_

Well, at least that was more than you’d said to him in the past week. 

Ron had never imagined he would ever be the sappy type to miss the sound of someone's voice. Of course, that was **before** he met you. Before he’d started to care for you in the way a _man_ cares for a _woman,_ rather than the care a CO has for his fellow officers.

Not that he’d told you that. _Not yet_.

And now he may never get to- considering you’d refused to speak to him for the last _three weeks_ about anything other than urgent work matters…..

You brought your cigarette to your lips and pulled from it deeply as you read over all that you had typed so far, the angry tick of your clenched jaw the only sign that you knew he was still there.

Even as you despised him, Ron still found you beautiful. A vengeful divinity with a glare that could cut glass and a stubbornness that rivaled his own.

He walked over to stand behind you, reading over your shoulder and realizing that it wasn’t _reports_ that you had been working on….but death notices

You’d once told him it was your least favorite thing to do, that you’d gladly take latrine duty for the rest of your life if it meant you never had to write another.

_“Soul sucking,” you’d called it, a night when the two of you shared a cigarette while on patrol. Your nose had been red from the cold and your eyes a little glassy from unshed tears, but you’d given him a sad smile when you’d noticed the grim look he was giving you. “I can’t remember the last time I wrote something that didn’t begin with ‘We deeply regret to inform you…’_

Ron used to know how you felt about everything, and if he were being honest with himself he _liked_ knowing how you felt about things- good or bad. For all the men you were the consummate professional, bright and even-tempered and nurturing.

But with Ron, you let yourself be a _person_. 

A brilliant, passionate, driven _person_ whose complicated thoughts and feelings complimented his own so well he’d _briefly_ considered changing his stance on the concept of soul-mates.

With a grim weight in his chest, he realized that all of those feelings toward you may have to be changed to the _past tense_.

Stubbing out the cigarette with ink-stained fingers, you pulled the letter from the typewriter and added it to the pile. He watched as you picked up a pen and began crossing names off a list he hadn’t seen before. You’d gotten through three of the five pages and it was already two in the morning.

Guilt flooded him when he realized that you’d been having to do this for at least month. 

If he hadn’t understood your anger towards him before, he certainly did now.

“Y/N…” he began, not surprised when you sniffed and made to get more paper for your next batch of death letters as if he hadn’t spoken. “It’s late, you should rest.”

 _Silence_ as you secured another sheet of paper in place and centered it.

Ron waited a few more seconds before he took another step closer to you, hand hovering over your shoulder hesitantly.

_I owe my mother a few apologies if this is how she was ever made to feel with my father._

When he placed his hand on your shoulder you immediately stiffened, fingers freezing where they rested over the keys like you’d turned to stone.

He’d expected as much, yet it still stung.

Ron says your name again, more softly than he thinks he’s ever spoken to another person in his life.

“ _You **need** to rest—_”

“Are you issuing an order, _**Lieutenant**_?” Your voice was sulfa powder on an open wound- searing and sharp. 

Your head has turned minutely in the direction of his hand on your shoulder, and if a glare could cause burns he’s sure his hand would’ve been ash by now.

He shakes his head. “ _No_ , no I’m not.”

You seem to nod in acknowledgment, only stopping when his thumb kneads into one of the tight knots along your trapezius. Ron sees your jaw tighten again, but he doesn’t take his hand away.

Surprisingly, you’re allowing it to linger where it is as well.

“Good, Sink’s commands outrank yours anyway. Besides, it’s not as if I have to _be_ anywhere in the morning. _You_ made sure of that—”

You cut yourself off when Ron steps up beside you and crouches down, eyes trained forward so all he can see if your profile. 

“ _Please_ ,” he whispers, moving his hand from your shoulder in favor of taking one of yours in between his calloused palms.

With an awful surge of hope, he decides to put it all out there, knowing just how easily you could reject him and leave him alone again.

_Maybe I don't want to be alone, not like I used to._

“I thought you were _dead_ , Y/n.”

You sigh ruefully at that, closing your eyes with a grimace.

“ ** _Hey_** , look at me—”

For the longest time you don’t, but just when he thinks you’ve shut him out again you let your eyes open and allow your doubtful glaze to fall on him.

You may as well have embraced him, considering the overwhelming _relief_ he felt as he looked into your eyes.

“It, it was….I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did—”

“You didn’t **_speak_** to me at all _._ ” You nearly hiss, the deep breath you took the only display of just how _furious_ you were beneath the surface of civility. Ron’s chest tightened uncomfortably when he caught your lip quiver, yet when he made as if to comfort you, you gave him a look that shut him right up.

_You weren’t finished yet._

“You were out of line, Speirs. You had _no_ right to speak to me like that—”

“I know...”

“You fucking _humiliated_ me! In front of Winters _,_ Moose _, **and** _Sink- not to mention every single _goddamned_ man in that tent—”

‘I _know—_ ”

“What in the _fuck_ were you thinking? Do you have any idea how hard it’s been getting them to see me as anything other than something to _fuck or mock_? _Years,_ Ronald! All gone like that—!”

You cut yourself off again when you start to cry, biting the inside of your cheek in an attempt to regain composure.

You were right, he hadn’t been thinking about that at all. 

He’d never thought much about the immature comments he’d overheard from the NCOs and replacements, never considered that any of those childish innuendos had ever been said to you _directly_.

“I didn’t _intend_ to…..when you got shot I wasn't able to do anything—”

You furrowed your brows at him and made a face. “I didn’t _need_ you to do anything. I’m not even in your _company_.”

He feels as if he’s about to lose you again. The idea makes his throat feel uncomfortably tight and his blood is beginning to run cold.

_Make it right. I have to make this right…._

“I _know_ you don’t need me to take care of you,” he says quietly, looking down at your hand in his and bringing it to his lips so he’s speaking against the curve of your knuckles. “But I think I need to do it for _me.”_

When he looks back at you he sees that your eyes are wide, one or two of your tears have spilled over and down your cheek.

“Jesus, I’m…. _Ron_ —” you begin, but stop when he shakes his head minutely.

“You know.” He interrupts. “ _I know_ you’ve got to know by now….”

Of course you know. You’re one of the smartest people he’s ever met. If anyone could read his true intentions through his blunt demeanor, it would be you.

But he’s glad that you don’t ask him to elaborate further. You seem just as content as he does to leave it unnamed.

You roll your lips together a few more times before taking a shaky breath. 

“ _That doesn’t mean you get to treat me like that.”_

He hums in acknowledgment. “You’re right. It doesn’t. _**Forgive me**_.”

You open your mouth to reply, but a yawn catches you unaware and Ron can’t help but smile slightly at the simplicity of the action. 

When you raise your left arm to hide your yawn into your elbow you hiss in pain, and _instantly_ Ron is anxious again.

“You okay?” He asks, and you nod despite your grimace.

“Yeah, yeah. I just _forget_ sometimes.”

When you lower your arm he watches as you take a deep breath and turn back to your work.

“ _I’ll do them._ ”

You whip your head to look at him, another yawn interrupting your questioning gaze.

“What? _No,_ don't be silly. I’m almost done….”

Something in the look he gives you shuts you up, and when he gives your hand a squeeze you seem to sigh in defeat.

“You’re not going to leave me alone until I go to bed, are you?”

He gives you a smirk. “Good guess.”

Standing up from his crouch he gently coaxed you into a standing position, nodding his head away from the desk and towards the darker corner of the room where your makeshift bed is set up. 

You give him a tight smile. “Gotta rebandage the arm first…. _oh-kay_ then.”

The rolled gauze is barely out of your pocket before Ron takes it from your hand, pointedly looking down at your covered arm.

“Ron...you _really_ don’t have to—”

“I know that, but I want to anyway.”

And because you’re infinitely more forgiving than any mortal being could ever hope to be- _more forgiving than a beast like him deserved_ , you let him.

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Sitting beside you on the floor, Ron was careful when unwrapping your old bandage, trying as hard as he could to keep his touch light.

The injury was red and bruised and angry but it was healing- just as the medic had promised. You’d have a scar, but you didn’t seem to mind that possibility.

You said his name quietly, and he realized he’d been staring.

When his thumbs ghost around the curve of your bicep you shiver, and when Ron looks back at your face he sees a light blush dusting your cheeks.

“I’m _fine_ ,” you say, exhaustion apparent in your voice now. “Stop looking at me like that—”

“Like what?” he says with a small smile, setting the clean bandage over your wound and feeling a pleasant tightness in his chest when you snorted a laugh.

“Like... like you’re a disappointed babysitter.”

Ron laughed at that, shooting you a look before starting to wrap the strips of gauze around your upper arm.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence as he tended to your arm, and every so often you offered him your cigarette to take a drag from.

Things still felt somewhat precarious between the two of you, yet Ron also felt that something more significant had been established in the dingy office you’d been assigned to stay in.

In the morning, Ron would approach Sink and Winters and see if he could get you back from battalion HQ. Not as a man who cared for you, but as a soldier who’d made a mistake and grievously misjudged another soldier’s character.

Anything to ensure you didn’t have to sit in this room another day and write to the families of dead soldiers.

When he’d finished bandaging your arm, you gave him permission to help you maneuver it back into the sleeve of your sweater. He felt your eyes on him the whole time and he swore he’d never known a feeling so sweet.

Your eyes are heavy with slumber already, but you still try once more to discourage him from finishing your paperwork.

“I can do it in an hour or two, just a _quick_ _nap_ —”

“If you were _this_ reluctant to sleep as a child, I’m starting to get why so many of your babysitters were ‘ _disappointed_.’”

Ron lifts up the pile of blankets you’d reluctantly allowed him to find for you, and despite your protests, you scoot yourself underneath them and fold your arms across your chest like a petulant teenager as he tucks them around you.

“ _Children tend to mirror the behavior of those in positions of authority,_ ” you say offhanded, almost sounding like you were directly quoting from some textbook on child psychology. “ _Maybe one should look within **themselves** and explore what unfavorable quality they may be projecting upon the blank canvas of youth…._”

You laugh at the furrowed confusion on his face.

“You must be a poetic drunk.” Ron offers, and from the grin on your face he knows he’s on to something. “Go to sleep, before you start reciting Shakespeare or something—”

“ _Twelfth Night_ or _Romeo and Juliet_?”

**“ _Y/N._ ”**

Ron’s fingertips brushing across your cheek instantly quiets you, your eyes trained on his face as he allowed himself to openly admire you for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, and you nod.

“I know you are.” 

When he sees the obvious haze of sleep start to curl around your gaze, Ron knows he needs to let you rest.

“Wake me up in an hour?” you ask, something in your tone of voice seeming to acknowledge the slim chance of him agreeing to your request.

“Maybe. _Sleep._ ”

With a half-hearted glare, you mumble something equivalent to ‘ _yeah yeah, okay’_ and turn your head away from him and close your eyes.

Ron stays where he is, stroking at your hairline in the same calming way his mother used to do for him when he’d had a bad dream as a child.

If his mom were here now, he imagined she’d be proud of him.

Maybe he wasn’t fated to be distant and cold and cruel like his father.

For the first time in his life, Ron let himself begin to dream of life after all of this.

The only thing he knew for sure?

He’d do anything- everything in his power, to make sure you were a part of it.

**_(Love you guys! hasta la pasta, my dudes!)_ **


End file.
